“I believe that most caregivers find that they inherit a situation where they just kind of move into caregiving. It’s not a conscious decision for most caregivers, and they are ultimately left with the responsibility of working while still trying to be the caregiver, the provider, and the nurturer. – Sharon Law Tucker

Today, i devote this post to the caretakers, unheralded and so often taken for granted. This weekend, I am one.

This weekend, I’m a Caretaker, and the meaning and poignancy and history of the term are not lost on me. Whenever I have been sick, the caretakers have always been women. I don’t think a man has ever taken care of me when I was sick, not once in my life.

Maria and I play different roles in our marriage, quite often reversing or inverting traditional gender stereotypes.

She rarely cooks and never shops, she is not what you call domestic. I relish those things.

Yet she is a deep and instinctive caretaker Most morning, when Gus needs to be held upright, it is Maria doing the holding, singing songs to Gus, playing chants for him on her Iphone, this seems so natural to her, and to him.

Most mornings, I am fussing around with my camera, recording this or some other moment of intimacy and emotion, I am always easier on that end of the things, caretaking has always been a women’s thing in my mind.

It is always dangerous to generalize, and often unfair. I think of two men in my life when I think of caretaking, there is Ali, who is nurturing and fiercely protective of his refugee soccer players. There is a young man at the Mansion named Logan, an aide who is a natural caretaker, the residents often tell me how loving and intuitive he is, and I can see  how much he cares.

But mostly, the caretaking there and elsewhere is done by women. I do think men and women are different, which isn’t to say unequal. I think women’s hearts are more open than the hearts of most of the men I know.

In my work with the elderly, I see how many women are caretakers for the elderly, and also for their aging mothers and fathers, it is difficult, even crushing work, it drains them and binds them and challenges them.  And often, it challenges them.

I rarely come across men who are not nurses or doctors  turn their lives over to their parents. I know it happens, I doubt it happens nearly as often.

When I have been sick – had my heart surgery, my eye operation, my sudden fevers and colds – Maria has always been there to take care of me to be a caretaker. To drive me to appointments, feed me, comfort me, love me. It is difficult for me to say how natural this is for her, and how healing for me. I never feel it is grudging or reluctant, I never have to ask for anything, she knows what I need.

I mention this all because this weekend I am a Caretaker, and I have learned in recent years how much I love doing that, what a powerful part of me that is. Love creates caretakers, as well as obligation. I take pride in it, I am good at it.

I am grateful for the opportunity to care for someone who is so devoted to caring for others. Is there a purer manifestation of love? Do I ever have a better chance to show what she means to me?

Maria is sick, she is weak and exhausted. It might be the flu, it might be a cold, it might be something else. It is not a life-threatening thing, I can see that, and so can she. But she is quite helpless, a startling thing to see in such a vibrant creature.

We won’t know what it is because Maria doesn’t go to doctors if she can walk and talk, that is the way she is and I don’t challenge her or question it any longer. I respect her right to make her own decisions about herself, just as I defend my right to do the same. We respect that in another.

Yesterday, I shoveled snow for an hour outside, and I saw her watching me closely, i knew she wanted to say something to urge me to stop. (She did mutter once, “what the hell are you doing?” but that was all).  But she didn’t try to stop me, and I appreciate her letting me feel like someone who could shovel his own walk.

I have rarely seen her so week. She insisted on getting up early to feed the animals, I know she doesn’t want me walking out on the ice pack. I let her go, had ginger tea and breakfast waiting, I walked the dogs, fed them, did the dishes, cranked up the wood stoves, I did anything I thought she might do, and when she came in, she was so weak she went right up to bed.

So I am the Caretaker this weekend. I cancelled my writing workshop, will haul the garbage and recycling to the dump, tend to Gus and hold him, make lunch and dinner, go out shopping. Maria is sleeping and in bed, No movies today, she agrees not to go outside again, so I know she’s hurting. There is no fight in her.

This is a gift to me,  a selfish thing. I remember taking care of my daughter when she was sick, I so loved cooking for  her, taking her temperature, reading to her, wiping her  brow, cheering her up, helping her heal.

The world is changing in so many ways, and I can think of nothing better for the world or healthier than men for them to honor the caretakers and incorporate caretaking into their own lives, as I have begun to do. I know it has been good for me, and I dearly love the men I know who are doing it.

Perhaps not surprisingly, they have become close friends.

I wrote this piece in honor of the Caretakers, and in honor of me for meaning to do it well and completely. Most of all, I honor the women who have been caretaking for centuries, and in our country, are doing so more than ever.

Running a farmhouse and a farm with animals and dogs and donkeys and sheep and cats is not simple (I must remember to feed the barn cats, they are in the basement again during the ice storm). I will be careful not to fall, to ferry tea, to pack up the car for the dump, to make sure we have enough food for the weekend, to bring Maria some medicine if she will take it, and take her temperature and make her soup.

It isn’t that I haven’t done these things before, I do them all the time. But this weekend I am the Caretaker, and  join that precious and loyal community of people who reach out beyond themselves and answer the call to help the vulnerable.

It is true, I think, that caretaking is so often something we move into, not always a conscious decision.

In our country, helping the vulnerable is seen by many as a blasphemy, an enabling of the weak. To me, it is sacred one, another way in which we define our sense of humanity. Maria is asleep now, so I get to blog.

Time to get dressed and head for the dump. There is much good and meaningful work to do.

Love is always a gift.